Riddle Me This
by Tara Laurel
Summary: "That night, he shoots off a text to Derek. He assumes that everyone else will catch on to - whatever it is he is feeling. It's not like he plans to pour out his heart to the dude. He just - needs someone to talk to." Post 6A. Stiles is having a hard time dealing with everything after the Nogitsune & Wild Hunt. But is it all really over? Angst, hurt, nightmares, texting, more hurt.


**Riddle Me This**

It's two weeks into his first semester in college when it starts.

The loss of time, pockets in his memory that, when he reaches inside them, come back empty, but heavy in a way that feels familiar. Like new and then missing keys. Like writing on a chalkboard.

But he isn't in Beacon Hills anymore and there aren't werewolves and kanimas and fox spirits around every corner and so he shakes it off as stress. From moving away. From missing his dad. Scott. Everyone. Or maybe it's like some weird adrenaline crash. He's finally away from the supernatural shitstorm and his paranoia can't help itself. He had three years of nothing but life-and-death and now it's all textbooks and avoiding his clingy roommate and quiet weekends with Lydia and maybe that's just way too normal for Stiles. But that's not right either, is it? He lived his whole young life up until sophomore year of high school as "normal". It should be his default setting. Like the past three years have been weird interference and dials turned up way too high from their factory settings and he's finally back to where he's supposed to be.

But then again, he was the one who marched into the woods to look for a dead body with a flashlight and his best friend so maybe he was never so normal after all.

He falls asleep psychoanalyzing himself.

When he wakes up in the middle of the parking lot three hours later, he spends a whole two hours skipping class and dialing his dad's number, then Melissa's, then Scott's, Malia, dad again, Derek once, twice, three times, Scott again, hanging up each time before the call can start to go through. He doesn't dare scroll to the "L"s because he knows he won't be able to stop himself from calling Lydia and then she'll see right through him and drive straight over.

He knows the Nogitsune played tricks on him last time with the brain scans, but maybe it knew something they all hadn't. Maybe it knew Stiles was still going to get sick, eventually. It was nestled right up there in Stiles' own head. It could have seen it coming.

He starts a list and keeps it in his back pocket during the day and tucked under a pillow at night. It's for himself, sure. But a part of him is a little bit reassured that if something happens to him, there's an instruction manual ready to go. On the back of the list is a note, detailing frontotemporal dementia and how to handle him. He's got emergency contact numbers bolded and highlighted. And then he marks each symptom with an "FD" or the Japanese kanji for self. He'd write the one for Nogitsune but there are two symbols and they're pretty complicated and maybe just thinking about the word is just too much. Besides, his friends would understand if they ever needed to.

So far, each symptom fits both categories. He isn't sure if that's reassuring, or suspicious.

He knows he's being stupid. That he should've told his dad and friends right away. Just in case. But they're all doing so well, now. Lydia and Scott are in full college mode. Lydia is already chairing a few student organizations and spent weeks color coordinating her dorm room and picking out a new postsecondary-perfect wardrobe. Scott has got his nose in a book every time Stiles calls, and is working at a vet clinic close to his college, complaining constantly that Dr. Fellman is nowhere near as cool as Deaton. His dad is enjoying the lighter workload. With Chris staying in town to take care of any minor supernatural threats, and Liam and the pack as backup, he's been back to domestic disputes and DUI's, and is loving it. Derek is, well, Stiles isn't really sure where Derek is at the moment. Scott had texted Derek at the beginning of summer to let him know that Peter was alive and back, in case the uncle neglected to do so himself. Peter and Malia had spent the summer, well, bonding, he guesses is the best word for it, but he thinks the word feels funny in his mouth. He knows from Malia's calls that they visited Derek, and then Cora, drove across country, and spent a week in the woods where Malia remained fully shifted.

His arm starts aching, throbbing, stinging, burning. There's nothing there. But he doesn't miss how the pain is right where Scott bit his evil doppelganger, right before said evil doppelganger fell to the floor, and to a million little cracked and crusty pieces. That night, he shoots off a text to Derek. He assumes that everyone else on his "In Case of Emergency" list will catch on to his - whatever it is he is feeling. But it's been so long since he messaged the former alpha, let alone spoke to the guy, maybe he has forgotten all of Stiles' little tells, or maybe he won't care enough to pry. Either way, he's Stiles' best bet. Best bet for what, though? It's not like he plans to pour out his heart to the dude. He just - needs someone to talk to. He leaves off any formal greeting, because that would just give too much away.

 _S: How's your Russian?_

 _D: Rusty._

Two full minutes later.

 _D: Why?_

And Stiles tells him all about the former Bratva member who faked his death and came to the states ten years ago to become a serial killer. It was mentioned in one of his Intro classes and he's been spending his free time looking into it. The guy hasn't been caught yet but Stiles is pretty sure he sees a connection forming in the letters he leaves at crime scenes and some classic Russian literature that could point to a pattern. They throw ideas and translations and sarcasm back and forth for a few hours before it's 2:00 AM but neither has said anything about the time. Either Derek is nowhere near his time zone, or the man really never does sleep. They had drifted into supernatural serial killers and Stiles was finishing filling Derek in on "The Beast".

S: _You think there was ever a serial killer banshee?_

 _S: That'd be weird, right?_

 _S: Like, they could probably see their victims and watch themselves commit the crime before they did it? So then they know they're gonna get away with it. They'd never get caught!_

 _S: Whoa. Lydia just got a whole lot scarier. And she was already way terrifying._

 _D: Heard about you two. Congratulations. Cora wants to me to tell you that it's about damn time._

It's been three nights in a row, now. Three nights of spamming Derek's phone with cold cases and theories and Derek doesn't once tell him to stop.

On night three, Stiles is right the middle of detailing how he could catch the new Chicago train bomber and making a quip about hating train stations now when it comes through.

 _D: Scott told me about The Hunt. You okay?_

He doesn't know what surprises him more. The fact that Scott's suddenly sharing and caring with Derek, or the fact that Derek is concerned. He sidesteps, or more like, sideswipes, the question, because, no, he's definitely not alright, but Derek doesn't need to know that, and he doesn't need to know that it's got nothing to do with the Wild Hunt. It's not even midnight yet when Stiles finally falls asleep mid-sentence, fingers still on the screen. Two back-to-back all-nighters texting Derek, and a whole week before that of avoiding his bed, is catching up him, no matter how stubborn he may be.

The wood is hard against his back and he wonders how long the train is going to be, and maybe he can get away with lying down on the bench while he waits because there isn't anyone else in the station and he's just so tired. They'll announce it when his train comes in, anyway, and Stiles is a light sleeper, has been, ever since -

Stiles flings himself bodily off the bench, spinning in place like an unstable top, arms whirling and hands shaking in some poor impression of a spirit-filled preacher. And just as quickly, he settles, sighs and sinks back down. He's had this dream before. Too many times to count. Alone and forgotten, waiting for a train that never arrives, and friends who aren't coming to save him. He figures he'll just wait some more. Wait for the dream to end.

He's cold, though, and that's new. Glancing down, Stiles feels his limbs begin to tremble and his stomach does a sort of cartwheel before sinking straight down through the bench and the floor and the earth. His feet are bare and in place of jeans are his old pajama bottoms - the ones he threw out after his sleepwalking romp in the woods. He closes his eyes against the image of a bear trap around his ankle, bites back against the pain, because it's not real, not real, not real, not -

"What kind of machine has ears?"

He's heard that voice in his dreams, too. Croaking out riddles and threats. This is just the first time that it's been paired with the train station. Of course his subconscious would bring together the two most terrifying times of his short life.

"What kind of machine has _ears_ , Stiles?"

The way it sticks on the first and last "s" of his name has chills charging through him and Stiles reaches up to cover his own ears. The motion causes a flare of white agony to rip through him and he opens his eyes to two more bear traps, biting down on his wrists. There are bandages and chains wound around his body, securing him to the bench.

He wants to scream but something else does that for him and Stiles flinches at the echo of the train whistle, at the steel screeching against steel, thundering engines groaning. The coal black train shudders into the station, slowing to a stop. A door opens and a hunched, white, form clamors down and out and now Stiles is looking away.

"What kind of machine has ears, Stiles?"

No, he won't do this. He won't be afraid of a figment of his own imagination. Stiles whips his head around, mouth opening to answer, only to sputter out a choked off scream when the chiseled teeth are suddenly snapping not two inches away from his own face. He gives himself one, two, three breaths before -

"A train," Stiles bites down on the words, eyeing the station around him because of course dream-Nogitsune would make a riddle about the Hunt. "A train. Because it has engin _eers_. And, really? That's one of the Riddler's jokes. Coming up short on new material?"

"Well, we _are_ in your head, _Stiles_. And I thought it would be - fitting. Would you like to try another?"

"Uh, no thanks. I'm good."

"Are you _sure_? You said it yourself. You should know these riddles. You do so enjoy this _Batman_. Do you think you're like him, Stiles? Running around with wolves and banshees and kitsune like this man runs with superheroes? Want to prove how _much_ you're like him? Prove yourself to be the intelligent hero. You did it before. You outsmarted me. Tricked _me_."

"Exactly. So I got nothing to prove to you, Imhotep."

"For old times," the spirit cocked its head. "What kind of men are always above board?"

"Chessmen," Stiles swallows, not missing the connection.

"How do you stop a werewolf from barking in October?" The spirit leaned in closer.

"Sh - shoot it in September."

"How do you stop a _Stiles_ from killing all his friends in October?"

"This isn't real. I'm dreaming."

"For now." The spirit paused, smiling in a way that made it look hungry. "What is it that's always coming but never arrives?"

Stiles looked up from his hands, shaking his head.

"No."

"You understand, don't you Stiles?"

"Why would you tell me this? Why would you warn me?"

"Because there's nothing you can do to stop it. We're going to get it right, this time, Stiles. Your friends. Your family. We're going to kill them all. They are separated. They are _weak_. They won't know we're coming. This time, everyone dies."

Stiles jolts awake, not unlike how he flung himself off that bench. He stumbles, tangled in bedsheets. His arm shoots out for purchase but finds a lamp instead, knocking it to the floor right next to where he lands. The bulb breaks, the sole source of light in the room shrinking out of existence. Sweat is beading all over his skin, bubbling over gooseflesh. His hands rip apart the blankets until he finds his phone dialing on instinct and adrenaline and panic.

It can't be true. It can't be real. But someone needs to know.

In case.

And right now he just needs to not be alone. Like that night three days ago when Stiles first texted him. But texting isn't good enough this time. Stiles needs to hear his voice. For someone to tell him he's okay.

He listens as the phone rings and thinks he's okay at least for now though and takes a second to just breathe in - and can't.

He tries again, staring dumbly at the phone in his hand as the little clock in the corner of the screen rolls over to 12:01 AM.

" _What is it that's always coming but never arrives?"_

There's something in his throat. It's not just stuck there. It's moving. Rising. Uncoiling and pushing up and up until he's bent over, heaving white bandages into his trembling hands. He grabs them and just squeezes, shaking.

A low and sleep-lined, "hello?" reaches out to him in the dark. He can barely hear it over his own gagging, but it's there, rough and quiet at first, but then once more, louder, sharper.

"Stiles? What's going on?"

Stiles picks the phone back up, but it's no use. The bandages aren't coming anymore, just stuck in his throat, a few loose ends hanging from his lips, and he's screaming against them but he can only heave and cough and cry.

"Stiles! It's gonna be okay -"

It doesn't matter that Derek knows something is wrong. That he'll gather the troops and try to come to his rescue. It doesn't matter that he can hear his friend's voice. Before, Stiles had wanted Derek to tell him those exact words. That he'd be okay. But it's different now. Because now Stiles knows that he won't. He's going to be alone, again. Just like when he was trapped in his head with it before. Just like when he was taken in the Hunt.

"Stiles! Answer me!"

At least this time, they'll remember him. He's not so sure that's a good thing. They might try to save him, again. Who will die this time? All for a broken boy who can't stop needing saving trapped in his own mind by a fox spirit while his husk of a body goes off and murders who knows how many of his friends. He'll never see any of them again. But they'll see him. His face. Call out his name. But it won't be Stiles that answers them.

"Stiles!"

...

"Stiles!"

...

...

"Yeah, Derek. I - I'm fine. I'm okay, now."

"What the hell is going on? I'm on my way."

"No, Derek. Don't. Besides, I think it's time I came back to Beacon Hills."

* * *

 **Question:** What belongs to you, but is used by others?

 _ **Answer:**_ _Your name_

* * *

 ** _A/N:_ **I had a dream that I was best friends with Derek Hale and I was up late in college in a dorm texting him about life and stuff. In my dream, the Nogitsune started to take me over. I was choking on bandages that came pouring out of my mouth. I dialed his number but couldn't speak. He was just yelling my name. I woke up & was sick & couldn't breathe IRL. My throat was dry and raw but what hurt the most was for that split second after waking it felt like I had lost my lifelong best friend. So...I wrote a thing

The answer to the last riddle "What is always coming but never arrives" is Tomorrow. Saying that the Nogitsune is going to take him over "tomorrow". Hence the note of 12:01 AM.

All the riddles are actually used by The Riddler, but are super fitting here, am I right?

Is this really happening? Is Stiles having a panic attack? Still dreaming? Is the Nogitsune back? I originally left it after the last set of "..." but added the final lines for creep factor. Is Stiles possessed now? Is he okay? Just being stubborn, stoic Stiles? What is going on? You decide.


End file.
